Iron County register. [volume] (Ironton, Iron County, Mo.) 1867-1965, 1887-01-06


found an iron bar in what had been a
granary once and went to work on one
OF the windows, and after working a
long time succeeded in opening it.
When he stood within, it was with deep
est awe he gazed about. Here lay the
household things of those unremem-
bered ones who gave him life. Sofas,
chairs, tables, a silent clock; old-fash-
toned vases wherein the flowers had
turned to dust, moth eaten rugs, and
carpet that parted under his feet like
tine-chopped feathers, tall carved
case of moldy books, brass candle
holders upon the wall, curious lamp
with prism pendants upon the mantel.
and every thing thick with mold and
stain and rust and dust.
This must have been the best room,
he thought, land have come home at
last,'
The window hangings were swing
ing in shreds FL! patched and repatched
by the lace weaving spider, and several
of the pictures had parted their cords
and were lying upon the floor. At
sight of one of these he started forward
with a cry: he thought it was his own
face, but it was the likeness OF a wOm-
an. Near 1t lay another. and at sight
of that, too, he cried out again, for it
seemed picture of his own familiar
lineaments. Then it came suddenly
upon him who they were. and he
caught them up and ran palpitating to
the light and looked hunGriiy into their
faces.
Father, mother" he cried, ''Oh! l
have never known YOU! | have never
seen You beforen' and with a great
rush of feeling he kissed and strained
them to him. Then breathing fast he
sat them upon table and stood
gazing upon the silent faces.
Gloom and loneliness and de-
cay were all about him, and
the whole longing of his life seemed
pressing in upon him. At sight of
these still faces the love which through
the long years had tlOated like Il bud of
feeling within his consciousness broke
suddenly into a quivering flower.
Father, motherr' he cried, sinking
down in an agony of grief before them,
"Oh! can / never come nearer to you
than this? Must l never hear your
voices, never feel your kisses. never.
never, hear you call me son. or tell me
| am welcome home? Oh, who did
IlllS awful "IoH8. w HO lobDtu mt
forever of YOU? It's too hard, it's too
hard." and he wept like Il child there
in the silence. Afterwards he stood a
long time leaning with bowed head
against the worm-eaten mantcl before
which his mother had waited on that
fatal night so long ago. and tried to
fancy something OF the life which once
had filed the place with sunshine.
I, L II lNr,1
that creaking. cobwcb-garlanded way
of gloom into the chambers above. In
some of the rooms the plastering had
fallen from half the ceiling. and a little
light was filtering through the lattice
of lath. showing that here and there
the roo had been eaten through by
rain and storm, and in one, near the
caves. the great branch of an oak came
through like an elbow.
After a time he CROPPED hts way back
to the better lighted room he first en-
tered and looked slowly and reverently
through the old spider-haunted case of
books. Some of the moldy volumes
had his mothers name upon the fly
leaf, and he took them down and
brushed them carefully and put them
back. In the drawers were letters and
papers, few of which he took to the
window and examined, some under
standingly and with a feeling of near
ness to the period when his parents
lived. Then he went out and walked
about on the crown of the hill where
Mrs. Tressler had told him his parents
were inferred, but he could not find
their graves, and after looking awhile
at what their eyes must often have
rested upon, the great white valley of
the Ohio rolling its silver into the
south. he went sadly back to the town.
What could this search he had en-
tered upon bring him in the end?
Could so old a mystery be soluble?
Had he not better 60 back to Open
stone and to work? No; he was tired;
he had not rested day in seven years;
he would 60 on, he cared not how
slowly. Was not she to the south of
him?
He had not thought of going to the
city where Celeste lived, but his step
quickened as her slender, limping fig
ure fitted through his fancy, and
looking up he saw the house where
Ivvl Snacr once lived. He looked at
it curiously, and wondered where or if
ever he should see that being who
had owned it. But another dwcller
held it now, and he went onward to the
town.
After dinner he purchased a box of
matches and some candles and re-
turned to the old haunted house in the
hillside thicket. At midnight he was
still there, and when the next midnight
came he had not quit the place. Not Il
little startled were the countryside
folk who passed that way, and saw a
gray plume of smoke wavering up
among the trees from chimney of the
old house, which stood fairly at the
foot of its murdered masters grave.
John Earring himself heard strange,
fearful noises as he sat like a ghost by
his candle in the dead stiffness of the
musty rooms, but he was free of super
stition, and ere long he gave no heed
to the rats rumbling about the garrets,
or the moaning and creaking of rub
bing tree-boughs upon the roof and
under the caves, for he was deep in the
story of his parents love and youth,
as revealed in the packets of letters he
had found in chamber-closet. Very
strange and sad it was to him. and his
eyes were often wet. Then there We're
other letters; some from his father S
one brother, who died before John
Earring was born, and few short
ones from Joel Whitney after he had
gone West when a young man. There
were also some from people of whom
he had no knowledge, and some to his
mother calling her SISTER" dated
Charleston, S. c. Clearly he had had
an aunt living there, and he wondered
if she were yet alive. Nothing, how
ever. could be found that pointed to
the tragic close of what had once been